little by little my love, or perhaps I should say my passion (for I do not know a word strong enough to express fully my overwhelming, anguished feelings for my father), reached a kind of morbid anxiety. I had only one true pleasure, which was dreaming and thinking about him. I had only one true desire, which was to do anything that might please him. How many times did I stand on the stairs waiting for him to come in, often shivering and blue with cold, simply in the hope of catching sight of him one second sooner? I used to become almost delirious with joy whenever he offered me the slightest
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